This Is How I Find Her by Sara Polsky

John’s my uncle,” I say. “Not my dad. I’m staying with them right now—my uncle and his family.” That doesn’t sound quite right. “My aunt and her family, actually.” I correct myself again. “My family.”
    â€œSounds complicated,” Natalie says.
    I laugh a little.
    â€œYeah,” I say. Natalie doesn’t pry.
    We lie there on the lawn quietly, almost covered by grass and weeds. I pass the camera back to Natalie, pull up a few weeds, and braid them together. This silence doesn’t feel full of all the things we’re not saying, the way sitting in the car with Leila does. With Leila or James, with Aunt Cynthia or Uncle John, I never explain myself either, but this is the first time I feel like I don’t have to.
    Next to me, Natalie points her camera randomly and clicks, trying to take interesting shots by accident. By the time Uncle John comes looking for me, I’ve woven a whole grassy crown, and I set it down by Natalie’s head. She turns her camera toward it.
    â€œSee you Monday,” she says.
    â€œYeah,” I say as I stand up. “See you Monday.”
    â€”
    When I walk into my mother’s hospital room the next day, I don’t have to study her for signs she’s breathing. She’s sitting up, staring at a tray of hospital food on the rolling table that extends over her lap. She isn’t eating anything, and I can understand why. The meat—I think it’s meat—is floating in an unidentifiable brown gravy, and the dessert, some kind of cake with a layer of “fruit” that might be jam, looks like it’s trying to wriggle its way off the plate.
    â€œMom, hi,” I say. “It’s me.”
    She lifts her head, refocuses her eyes on my face.
    â€œHello, Sophie,” she says. She doesn’t sound happy to see me. Her voice has no expression at all. It’s flat and slow, like it’s about to run out of batteries.
    I speak more quickly, as if that will somehow make her do the same. “Are you done with that? Why don’t I get it out of your way?”
    I slide the rolling table down the bed and into the corner. I don’t think my mother actually cares, but I don’t want to look at the mystery meat and wobbly dessert if I don’t have to.
    â€œHow are you feeling today, Mom? Have you eaten? Has the doctor been by?” I hear my own voice coming out louder than it usually does, even though I know my mother can hear me perfectly well. I take a seat next to the bed, slinging my backpack off onto the floor. I lean in.
    My mother lifts her shoulders, managing half a shrug, and then a half-shake of her head. “Tired,” she says. “My head feels cloudy. Full of fuzz. Can’t think clearly.”
    I nod. “Dr. Choi said this would happen, remember?”
    I don’t mean to talk to her like she’s a child, but that’s how my voice comes out. Basic words, small sentences, loud and lifting up brightly at the end.
    â€œIt’s the medication making you feel like that. Some of the side effects will wear off once you get used to it, or the doctors will try you on something else.” I say it like it’s easy: one medication doesn’t work, that’s okay, there’s another one we can try. Even though I know it’s not so simple.
    I stand up. “Do you want to go down the hall to the lounge and play a board game with me for a little while? Or I have a deck of cards in here.” I reach down for my bag and pull out the small cardboard box I found in Aunt Cynthia’s guest room.
    But my mother slowly drags her head from one side to the other. No, no board game or cards. She doesn’t want the TV on either.
    I suggest every activity I can think of. Sketching, listening to the radio. I could go downstairs to the cafeteria and pick up a snack. Maybe some fruit? Something healthier than the dinner she didn’t eat. But my